Cozy Up to Death

by Colin Conway

  “Here in PV, everyone is in everyone’s business.”

  Brody frowned.

  “One of the ladies in her knitting circle, Martha Cole, said she saw her in Manchestah a month ago.”

  “Manchester, New Hampshire?” Brody asked, thinking about the newspaper he’d read at the Italian restaurant.

  Farnsworth scrunched his face and pulled back slightly as if Brody had asked something stupid. “Of course, it’s in New Hampshah. Where do you think she saw her, Manchestah, England?”

  “How far is Manchester from here?”

  “Three hours,” Farnsworth said.

  “And Martha saw Alice there?”

  “Wait,” Farnsworth said, “that’s three hours by bicycle. It’s less than an hour by car.”

  “You’ve ridden your bicycle for three hours?”

  “Ayuh, it’s a wonderful experience.”

  “Does Daphne ride?”

  “I wish,” Farnsworth said, again looking at Brody as if he’d asked a stupid question. “I bought her a bike and everything. She didn’t even wanna ride to York Harbah. We could have done that in twenty minutes.”

  Brody studied him. For a police officer, he was missing the most obvious clues.

  “You live in Alice’s old place, the one upstairs?”

  Brody nodded.

  “It’s strange.”

  “What is?” the big man asked.

  “She was a nice woman,” Farnsworth said. “I would have thought she would have said good-bye to her friends. She’d been here almost forty years.”

  “Some people just want to leave and start a new life,” Brody said.

  “Ayuh, maybe,” Farnsworth said. He glanced around a final time. “If you see Magnum, give him a ruffle for me.”

  Chapter 7

  After closing the store for the day, Brody climbed the outside stairs to a one-bedroom apartment above his bookstore. There was only minimal furniture inside—a bed, a nightstand, and a kitchen table with two chairs.

  He’d slept in the bed the previous night and made it when he got up. It was a habit he’d learned while incarcerated.

  He wondered if Alice had taken the furniture with her or if the marshals had removed it. Onderdonk said someone would be by in the coming weeks to help him select new furniture. The lawman asked him to be patient, promising to outfit his apartment with something acceptable.

  Brody didn’t care, though. He’d had less than this when he spent time in juvenile hall, jail, or prison. He could live in this sparsely decorated apartment quite nicely.

  For what he had now was something he didn’t have in those other places. Freedom. And peace. In fact, he had neither when he was with the club. Someone was always watching him.

  But no one watched him now.

  Except maybe the Marshal Service, and they only wanted him to abide by a simple set of rules.

  Do not contact people from your old life.

  Do not visit places from your old life.

  Do not develop habits from your old life.

  He was to discard anything that had to do with Beau Smith. Only Brody Steele could survive now.

  This whole mess, he had decided, was his doing. His actions and selfishness caused this life of loneliness, this life of hiding, this life in Pleasant Valley. Federal Agent Max Ekleberry might have been the architect, and Marshal Ted Onderdonk built the structure, but Brody laid the foundation for this life.

  His house of cards began to fall when his grandmother ended up in financial problems. To get out of a bind, she mortgaged the house she had lived in for almost sixty years. Unfortunately, she fell behind on her payments and didn’t tell Brody about her troubles until it was almost too late. She wasn’t the type of woman to ask her grandson for aid. He only found out about her predicament when he visited and discovered the foreclosure documents on her dining room table.

  Brody did the only thing he knew how to do—he went into action. At first, he threatened a bank officer. This only got him into trouble. Realizing too late that he couldn’t bully his grandmother’s problems away, he did what every citizen in the world must—he paid the bank what it was owed. Then he paid off the rest of her mortgage.

  Afterward, Brody hired contractors to improve her home, fixing things that had gone unrepaired for years. It felt good to assist the woman he regarded as his true mother, the only person he had ever really loved.

  Unfortunately, Ekleberry and his team had been watching the Satan’s Dawgs. Brody’s threatening of the bank officer had not gone unnoticed, and it led the FBI man to his grandmother. When the federal agent discovered Brody was using illegally gotten gains to not only pay off his grandmother’s mortgage but to upgrade her house, he had found his leverage point.

  Ekleberry approached Brody’s grandmother and explained who and what her grandson indeed was. This shocked her as she had never known he was in a motorcycle club. She had always thought he was in a rock and roll band, just on the cusp of making it big. Every grandmother wants to believe her grandson will someday be rich and famous. The idea that her grandson was a criminal broke her heart. When the agent had her in his pocket, he met with Brody.

  That’s when the big man threatened to kill Ekleberry. It was yet another mistake Brody made along the way. The G-Man explained that the U.S. Government was preparing to seize his grandmother’s house due to his use of illegal funds to pay off its mortgage and to increase its value through improvements. They would argue that Brody had laundered money through his grandmother’s home.

  Brody wrongly claimed there was no proof of the illegality of those funds and then stated no one had been arrested. Therefore, he argued, the government could not go after his grandma’s house. It was at that moment that the FBI man read him his rights and put handcuffs on him.

  The arrest of the remaining crew soon followed. Everyone was arraigned and assigned a lawyer, but the feds were really going after only one man that day—Beauregard Smith.

  It didn’t take long for Brody to roll on his brothers though. Partially it was because his grandmother asked him to do so, but there were other circumstances at play.

  The club had stopped being the family he searched for when he was younger and was now a machine for greed. They were running drugs and guns and had gotten into a variety of deadly alliances around the country. His skills as a bookkeeper were recently lent out to other charters. What he did was for the club. It wasn’t some sick service to be provided to others for whom he had no loyalty. Therefore, he had already been looking for a way out.

  Even before their arrests, the brothers in the club were turning on one another. There was too much money at stake for loyalty to remain the most valuable thing. Brody believed the end was near when the current president began a systematic witch hunt of his own, demanding repeated loyalty oaths to himself followed by tests of faithfulness. He had already proven his faithfulness by being the bookkeeper. Jumping through hoops like a trained puppy wasn’t something he would do.

  Yet he did exactly that for the FBI and then the U.S. Marshals.

  He lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, listening to the occasional slow-moving car passing along Main Street. Now and then, a horn from a boat sounded in the bay. These were the sounds of his new life.

  Admitting that I like being here wouldn’t make me less of a man, would it?

  Besides, it was Brody Steele who liked the sounds and aromas of Pleasant Valley, not Beau Smith.

  Brody Steele was also intrigued by the cute bookkeeper who worked at the grocery store. Beau Smith would never have known what to say to her, and she would never have given the rough biker the time of day.

  Brody Steele had enjoyed the casual walk along Main Street with sweet, older people smiling at him. Beau Smith would never have experienced that.

  But at the Italian restaurant, Il Cuoco Irato, it was Beau Smith who identified the true nature of the restaurant. For bookstore owner, Brody Steele, it would have been only a place that served a moderately good Capre
se salad and a below-average meatball sandwich.

  What should he do about the restaurant then?

  Should he tell the police?

  Or call U.S. Marshal Ted Onderdonk?

  Or worse, should he notify FBI Special Agent Max Ekleberry?

  No, Brody decided. He wouldn’t tell anyone.

  The motorcycle club’s unofficial motto was Do Unto Others Before They Can Do Unto You.

  Now he was going to survive by a new motto—Live and Let Live.

  Except the club wasn’t going to let him just live. They would never forget what he did. For immunity for his own crimes, he rolled on the club. A few guys went to prison, but most of them avoided a single day behind bars. Turning into a rat did one positive thing for the club though.

  It galvanized them behind a single purpose.

  The Satan’s Dawgs were now solely focused on hunting Beau Smith, their former bookkeeper and once-loyal brother.

  Brody Steele rolled over, closed his eyes, and went to sleep.

  Chapter 8

  In the morning, Brody showered and shaved, the latter of which still felt odd and awkward. He then dressed in yet another pair of khakis and a plaid shirt. Before his arrival in Pleasant Valley, Ted Onderdonk had purchased him seven pairs of tan pants and a different plaid button-up for each day of the week. At least the man had bought him different colored underwear. Not wearing black t-shirts, jeans, and boots felt weird. It had been his uniform for the last twenty years except for those times while he was in prison.

  After leaving his apartment, he walked through the nearby neighborhood, checking out the houses that shared the alley with his bookstore.

  On both sides of A Street, the houses were beautiful and well kept. Manicured lawns, each with a white picket fence, abutted the sidewalks. Many of the homes appeared to be recently painted. Brody slowed his gait, his eyes glancing to each side of the road, while he appreciated how nicely coordinated the colors of the houses seemed to be.

  He did not grow up in a neighborhood like this. He’d never even seen a nice home until he’d burglarized one as a teenager. For a while, his mother dated a man who ran an automobile recycling yard, and they lived with him on-site in a rusting, single-wide trailer. That was his favorite home growing up, partly because he got to operate the car crusher as an eleven-year-old boy, and partially because he could disappear into the labyrinth of decaying cars waiting for their ultimate death.

  In several of the yards he passed, silver-haired men tended to their small flower beds. They smiled and waved at Brody. He nodded and raised a hand in acknowledgment. He still couldn’t get over how friendly people were to him due to the simple change in his appearance.

  When he finished reconnoitering the neighborhood, Brody returned to Main Street. He was ready for some breakfast.

  A Pleasant Meal, the small restaurant at the west end of Main Street, was packed. Cars filled the lot, and others were on the street. Brody pulled the door open and was met with not only the smell of frying bacon and eggs but a cacophony of voices.

  Several people sat on chairs just inside the door. They looked up at him with both kindness and desperate hunger, silently begging him not to make them wait any longer than necessary.

  A woman with a brown apron approached him. “About a twenty-minute wait, hon, unless you wanna sit at the bar.”

  “The bar is fine.”

  The stools at the counter were caramel-colored vinyl high-backs that were bolted to the floor. Brody sat in one and spun forward. From his position, he could see two men in the kitchen hurrying behind a large grill. Several waitresses moved quickly about the restaurant attending to the customers.

  The waitress with the brown apron stepped behind the counter, slid a menu in front of Brody, and asked, “Like some coffee?”

  “Black,” he said, “and I’m ready to order.”

  She glanced at the unopened menu then pulled out her order book. “What’s your choice?”

  “Three scrambled eggs. Hash browns. Sausage links. You’ve got the links, right? Not the patties.”

  “No patties,” she mumbled.

  “Good. And no toast.”

  “Stayin’ away from the carbs?”

  “Carbs?”

  The waitress looked up from her order book to quickly appraise the big man. “Never mind.”

  “And if you’ve got a banana, bring one of those, but don’t peel it. I’ll take it with me.”

  “Banana for the road,” the waitress muttered. She then tapped her notepad once with her pen before stepping over to the men at the grill. She clipped Brody’s order to a ticket wheel and wandered off.

  He glanced at the elderly gentlemen who sat on either side of him. Each nodded politely and smiled. He did so in kind. For a moment, he allowed himself to get lost in thought.

  I’m in Mayberry, he mused.

  He remembered watching reruns of The Andy Griffith Show as a child while visiting his grandmother. Being with her was a magical place, and he wished she was his real mother. Instead, he had a train wreck of a mom who invited drama into her life as if it was an old friend. The turmoil started long before his father showed up and swept her off her feet. It would continue long after she named her first and only child after the handsome stranger who vanished in the night after stealing not only her heart but her car.

  While he stayed with his grandmother, though, she encouraged him to watch wholesome programs like The Andy Griffith Show. Andy, Opie, and Aunt Bee painted a black and white picture of what a perfect American town was supposed to be. A wry smile pushed at his lips when he thought of Barney Fife and realized that Constable Emery Farnsworth could fill that role quite nicely.

  When he was a kid, he wanted to visit a place like Mayberry, and now he lived in the real deal. Maybe the U.S. Marshal’s supercomputer did get it right, and no one messed with the system. Was this where Brody was truly meant to be?

  A group of women suddenly laughed, and he turned in his chair to look at them. Seated at a table near the windows were seven silver-haired women. Each appeared to be in their seventies, and all of them were either knitting or crocheting. They were smiling and clearly enjoying themselves.

  Brody stood and walked over to their table.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  The ladies all looked up. Not one of them stopped their hands from working while they watched him.

  “Is there a craft store in town?”

  Most murmured in affirmation, and one of the ladies nodded toward the woman with a short haircut. “Martha has a store.”

  The woman smiled while she continued to work her knitting needles.

  “Martha Cole?” Brody asked.

  Her hands stopped. “Why, yes. How did you know that?”

  “I heard your name yesterday. From Officer, I mean Constable Farnsworth.”

  The women muttered their appreciation of the constable.

  “Oh, Emery,” Martha said. “Isn’t he delightful?”

  “Yes,” Brody agreed. “Delightful.”

  The rest of the women purred in support of Emery’s delightfulness.

  “Martha, where is your store located?” Brody asked. “My grandmother taught me how to knit when I was young. Believe it or not, it’s helped me whenever I’ve had to deal with,” he paused for the right word, “downtime.”

  “Like when you were in the Navy?” one of the ladies inquired.

  “Excuse me?” Brody asked.

  “The Navy,” she said, pointing to the flame tattoo on the back of his hand.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he lied. “I knitted while on the ship.”

  “Thank you for your service,” several of the ladies said in unison. Several other tables looked his way then added their thanks for his service while in the military.

  Brody rubbed his newly short hair. He’d never once been mistaken for a military man.

  “My shop,” Martha said, “is on Blue and Fourth.”

  “You know how to get around town?” another
woman asked. “It can be very confusing.”

  Main Street divided the town. South of Main, the streets were labeled by letters. The city made it to E Street. To the north of Main, the streets were named after colors. There were only three: Blue, Yellow, and Red. The roads that ran east and west were called ‘avenues’ and started at the beach with First. The town made it to Seventh Avenue before petering out.

  “It is confusing,” Brody agreed, “but I think I have it almost figured out.”

  That seemed to please the women.

  He turned to Martha. “I’ll stop by later today. I find myself with a lot of free time right now. Getting back to knitting would probably be good for my soul.”

  “It most certainly would be,” she said brightly.

  Brody waved goodbye to the group and went back to the counter where his breakfast now waited.

  The elderly man to his right said, “I almost ate your breakfast while you were ovah there flirtin’ with the ladies, but I didn’t wanna do that to no naval officah.”

  Brody resisted smiling and patted the older man on the back.

  He had only just joined, yet he’d already been promoted in his pretend naval career.

  Chapter 9

  Brody looked up from the fifth chapter of The Deep Blue Good-by when the brass bell jingled.

  Even though he wasn’t that much of a reader, he knew not to judge a book by its cover. However, he could immediately tell the man standing at the entrance did not belong in a bookstore.

  He was overly tanned and weightlifter big, his white tank top stretching over his thick chest. Red workout pants strained around his thighs, a white stripe ran down the sides to extremely white tennis shoes, as if they had never been outside of the gym. His dark hair appeared wet and was combed straight back. A gold chain with a small gold barbell dangled around his neck.

  Brody closed his book and set it on the counter.

  The door closed behind the man, the bell tinkling once more as it did.

  “You da new ownah?” he asked. His accent was thicker than Emery Farnsworth’s and filled with cockiness.